


Point Of Ignition

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mutant Registration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was never his fight. He was supposed to die with the Registrar's Complex, with his last statement. It shouldn't have to be his fight.<br/>For Ryssa, in the non-canonical bits of her Mutant Registration series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Point Of Ignition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryssabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/gifts).



> This is using [these](http://avagueambitioninyourdirection.tumblr.com/post/46642844168/bleeding-out) [two](http://avagueambitioninyourdirection.tumblr.com/post/47557253996/i-did-another-bad-thing-in-the-mutant-au-follows) non-canonical works Ryssa wrote for her Mutant Registration 'verse.

This is not what he wanted. This is not what he planned. He did not want to _live_ through this. He did not want to wake up in the center of the Mutant Registration Complex, the center of the blasts, with the heat of the morning sun on his face and the sound of police and onlookers swarming around him.

He's half-buried in the rubble, a pair of corrugated metal sheets perfectly steepled above him, miraculously shielding him from sight and from harm. He shakes off the bits of brick on his chest and sits up on his elbows. As unhappy as he is at waking up, the one thing he is _not_ going to do is let the authorities take him again, so he he watches through narrowed eyes, counting the uniformed soldiers and officers that are milling about the wreckage, eyeing the pedestrians that have stopped to stare at it all. There's an opening-- there, and he can sneak out of here and slip into the carpark down the street, hide in there for a while until it's a little safer to get back home. It's an opening, but barely, and he's not even sure if he should take it. How much is he willing to risk? _'Go now. Do it now. Go!_ ' something whispers in his ear, and it sounds golden. He obeys without thinking, slipping out of his hiding place and darting between piles of concrete and twisted metal, using the chaos to his advantage. The dust covering his entire body has disguised him a dirty grey, coating his black clothes in chalky white and rusty brown, and he breathes heavily through his nose to try and get the colours writhing under his skin to mimic it.

He's nearly out, nearly free and clear, when--of course-- a policeman rounds the blind corner, thankfully looking the other direction. Grantaire crouches, shrinks himself against an alcove made by a still-standing metal door and a crunched and jumbled pile of ductwork. The cop kicks a chunk of concrete, and it goes flying past Grantaire's hiding place, rattling clangs following its path as it ricochets off the rubble. The policeman continues on, rounds another mountain of concrete made by the collapse, and disappears, and Grantaire breathes again--once, twice--and runs.

The carpark's stairwell is cool after the desolate heat of the blast site, and Grantaire runs all the way up to the top story, staying just inside the column of the stairway to double over and breathe, elbows against his thighs. He can feel the ink rising, jagged war paint slashing across his face. He leans against the wall and drags his hands over his forehead, down his face, and the colours fall away with his hands, shrinking back under his collar.

He climbs the rest of the stairs up to the top of the carpark. Leaning out over the edge, he can see crater of the Registrar's Complex in full. It's chaos; policemen and militia and MRA officials are wandering about as if in a daze. There's a cluster of men in suits standing together. They're probably discussing who did this, who has done the work of the man called Apollo now that Apollo is gone.

(" _The mutant Apollo has been captured and neutralized--_ ")

It's not safe to go home, not yet. Grantaire ducks back into the stairwell, away from the sun that's climbing higher into the sky, away from the heat, away from the bright light that just isn't quite bright enough. He curls up on the middle step, concrete digging against his tailbone and scraping against his shoulder blades, and waits.

He didn't want to live through this. Blowing up the Registrar's Complex was going to be a statement, his last act in Apollo's name, a statement that would get all the rest to rise, to rebel, to do what's needed. It was supposed to paint the city with warning and lift the mutants of Paris with courage. He was supposed to die with his last contribution to Enjolras' cause. The words and colours and pictures that usually shift and change on his torso have been swallowed by black. The words of devotion and courage and rebellion that were supposed to ring his neck and paint his arms--the ones that were to become permanent messages, his last words stained on his body-- have disappeared. He didn't die, and now he has nothing left.

Nothing but a school that is pointless now that he's done this. Now that Enjolras is gone. Nothing but friends that were Enjolras' friends first, and willing revolutionaries second. Nothing but the taste of ink bitter on the back of his tongue and burn scars around his neck. Nothing but a home full of Greco-Roman gods-- but not the right one.

The sun is glancing gold off the rooftops, casting shadows that are long and thin and pointed. It's time to go home.

"What do we do now?" Marius asks, perched on the arm of the sofa. There's a scorched jacket of inky black on the floor, and he's moving the cloth around and around in circles with the toe of his shoe. Everyone else is staring at the muted television, watched the scroll of words at the bottom of the screen as various cameras zoom in on the ground zero that used to be the Registration Complex.

"We keep fighting," Bahorel grunts, jaw set in an angry line.

"We fight harder than ever," And Combeferre's voice is louder than they've ever heard before, ringing with a conviction that need not be enhanced by his mutation. "The Act has taken the lives two of ours, and imprisoned more besides. The destruction of the Complex is only a statement. It will take far more than explosives to destroy the MRA. We will take up the fight where Enjolras left off, and finish it for him."

"And Grantaire?" Jehan asks. He's curled up against Courfeyrac's side on the couch. The potted plant on the window sill has shriveled and dried in its ceramic holder.

"He opened the floodgates for us. The rest of the world is seeing this. Mutants in other countries will get similar ideas. So we use this to our advantage, to fight."

\---

He's tired, so tired. Every step towards his home is heavy, and he walks slowly even as he sticks to alleyways and shadows. His insides feel coated in ink, like he's drowning in it. He shouldn't _be_ here. He has no reason left to care, no blazing idol to follow or golden idiot to rescue. The lining of his throat stings, but whether it's with tears or ink, he doesn't know. He feels exhausted and empty, and when the eels squirm and push at his skin, he does nothing to stop them. What's the point, now? He keeps walking towards home.

His entire body is dark, arms limp at his sides, head down, face swirling with blackness-- his eyes are dull. Ink is oozing from his hands, falling to the ground in long strings, and squishing out from his shoes, leaving a trail of black behind him. Feuilly sees him coming through the window and opens the door for him. Grantaire steps into the apartment without looking up. Ink is dripping from the corner of his mouth and collecting in pools under his eyes. His clothes are soaked in it, hanging limply off his body, and he drags himself across the room, only stopping when he notices the others are staring.

"Get out of here," he commands in a voice too rough, too deep, too _broken_ to be his. Courfeyrac reaches out to touch his shoulder, but shrinks back at the force of despair that hits him, curling his shoulders like a punch to the gut. There's no trace of the anger from before; now there's nothing.

They do go, slowly and with hesitation, but Combeferre grabs a bucket and a brush from under Grantaire's sink before he leaves, staring sadly at the hunched figure leaking black before closing the door and focusing on the stains that lead up to the apartment, brush in hand. He looks back at the door, but he knows nothing he could say would convince Grantaire that things might be all right again.

Grantaire drops into a chair in the kitchen. He feels empty, aching like there's a hole inside him, like there's something missing. From his seat he can see the glow of the television, still turned to the news, still broadcasting the destruction. Black still oozes from his body, and it ripples out across the floor, decorating the walls and cabinets in the kitchen with swirls and specters that writhe as if in pain. The newsfeed switches to footage of Enjolras, burning with light at the foot of the Parliament building, footage of police closing in with vaccines at the ready, and footage of Grantaire flinging his arms wide and conjuring the pillars of gods from himself. He looks away from the television. He has nothing left. This isn't his fight, anymore.

(It's never been his fight. His fight was to keep his head down, keep his mouth shut, keep his ink hidden away. If Enjolras hadn't been so _stupid_ \-- If Enjolras-- If Enjolras--)

The television is splattered with black, screen obscured by already-drying ink.

\---

Grantaire lays his head on his arms on the kitchen table, unwilling to move. It's quiet, it's as comfortable as he deserves right now, and he's tired. He so tired he wonders if maybe he could just drop all the ink inside him into a puddle on the floor, into a sea, and be empty. He just wants Enjolras back, he wants _Enjolras_ back, not Apollo. He doesn't give a shit about Apollo anymore. It's not his fight.

"Grantaire," the voice that speaks is gentle and familiar, and his head shoots up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

"Wha--"

Sitting across from him at the table is Enjolras. Not the strange inky parrot-thing he'd conjured up in the room at the Complex, but _Enjolras_ , a perfect replica. Or something. This Enjolras looks whole, this Enjolras doesn't sound like he's speaking through water, this Enjolras spoke _first_.

("I'll see you when it's all over," the inky Enjolras had said.)

He's too exhausted for this-- it must be a hallucination, something brought on by all the ink pouring itself out of him like a broken artery. He shakes his head and slowly stands, dragging himself into the living room to sit on the couch and press both palms against his eyes.

"Grantaire, please." The voice is just as soft, pleading, and Grantaire doesn't think he's ever heard Enjolras plead before. He drops his hands away from his face and looks up. Enjolras is standing there, and behind him on the wall is the mural of Greco-Roman gods, eleven of them standing pillar-like, waiting. Enjolras stands before them, three-dimensional, a shining Apollo. Grantaire hadn't even noticed that the painting of the Sun-god had gone.

"Enjolras--" Grantaire chokes on his name, feels like his throat is burning. "What do you want?"

"I want you to know it's okay."

Grantaire pulls his knees up to his chest and succumbs to feeling like a child. "It's not okay! You're dead!"

"I'm right here."

"You're not real! I just made you with all--with all this." He gestures to the ink that stains the floors and still runs down his legs to pool at his feet. This Enjolras isn't inky, isn't hand drawn with a flourish or not-quite-bright enough. This Enjolras looks real, sounds real, can't be real.

(You picked up his body and carried it to the meeting at Combeferre's, remember? He wasn't shining anymore. The dead can not speak. The dead can not walk. The dead can not comfort you or confirm their corporeality. The dead can only _not_.)

"Does that matter? I'm here now, right?"

"I don't know. What do you want?"

"For you to fight. You're one of us."

Grantaire grinds his palms against his eyes and feels dried ink flake off his cheeks. "It's not my fight. It was always yours, I did it for you. The others can go protest or go to battle or whatever. I'm done."

"Then--then at least stay here with me."

Something that isn't the eels tugs at him, and he nods slowly. Enjolras blurs for a moment, and fear clenches his heart until he realizes he's crying and wipes the tears away with the back of his hand. "Can I touch you?"

\---

It's taken planning, a lot of planning, a lot of camping out at Combeferre's house, or Cosette's father's place, or meeting up in the halls of Lamarque's school. Combeferre's walls are covered in speeches and diagrams and ideas. It's been chaos without Enjolras, but they're pulling together. It's almost time.

They're crowded into Combeferre's kitchen, papers in hands, talking all at once. They have two weeks, and every day the date feels like it's looming over them.

"Where's Grantaire?" Feuilly asks suddenly. "We haven't seen him in weeks."

"Is he okay?" Marius asks. "Is he alive? Are we sure they haven't taken him?

Courfeyrac shakes his head sadly. "He's alive. I don't know about okay. He won't answer his phone. When I went to his house he wouldn't let me inside. He just told me to go away."

Jehan nods. "He was only ever doing this for Enjolras. Now..."

They're silent a moment for their fallen leader and the aborted fall of Grantaire's. Then Combeferre sucks in a tight breath and begins to dole out instructions and directions and plans. They only have two weeks. It doesn't feel like enough.

\---

Grantaire sits on the couch and drums his fingers on the table, watching random designs swirl across it. Enjolras sits beside him, a hand light on his knee. He clears his throat softly.

"The others are getting ready to fight again. You should join them."

Grantaire curls his hand into a fist and the colours suck back into his skin. "I only ever fought with them because you were there. You're here now, I have no reason to go out there."

"They're your friends--"

"They're _your_ friends. They were yours first and they will always be yours first. _They'll_ fight for you. Just let me have you."

Enjolras sighs and sits back against the couch with a thump. Grantaire stands up to make coffee. The first few weeks he'd had Enjolras back, glowing and warm in his arms, he'd done nothing but cling and whisper and cry. And Enjolras' touch had been more fire than electric, searing the ink on him brown where it was black. Now Enjolras is talking of battle again, pushing him to fight. He's already lost so much. He can't go out there. He burns his tongue on the coffee.

"I know what you're thinking."

"Of course you do."

"Grantaire, you love me." He says it with such casualness, leaning against the door frame, like it's nothing, like it hasn't cost Grantaire his anonymity, his respect, his comfort, his heart. "You love me, so do this for me."

"I can't."

"Please."

"I can't do it again. I can't." He slumps into the kitchen chair and cradles his head in his arms. Enjolras sits across from him in silence and this all feels far too familiar.

\---

He's lying across the couch, staring at his living room ceiling while Enjolras paces a few feet away. He tries to amuse himself by making pictures on the ceiling. Drawing is not as entertaining as it used to be. He feels like he's losing something, like something is fading away.

"Grantaire." Enjolras' voice is suddenly urgent, commanding, reminiscent of the way he used to be. He strides to the television and turns it on. The black ink that was covering the screen liquefies again and slithers back across the floor to Grantaire so he can see. On the screen, Combeferre is standing in front of the Parliament building again, the building still a painted sunset, a bonfire. His words are quiet, and there is absolute silence in the audience, but everyone is listening. It's his power, his mutation; the words that come out of his mouth are quiet but convincing, and the people who are willing to listen are gripped by them.

Combeferre is standing on the steps to the Parliament building, and Grantaire can see other mutants scattered nearby. He knows Feuilly is on a roof somewhere, a map spread across his lap, an earpiece jammed in his ear, ready to yell out escape routes if need be. He knows Bahorel is on the edge of the crowd somewhere, ready to jump in and fight. He knows everyone is in position. Grantaire looks up; Enjolras is staring at him with a grim expression.

Combeferre is standing in front of an audience, speaking the words written by Enjolras. He wishes the one who had written them was saying them, but that's beside the point now. Instead, he speaks in the quiet timbre of his voice, looks the people below him in the eyes, and speaks Enjolras' words. There is silence. He doesn't have the flare that held a crowd like Enjolras did, but his mutation means he knows how to work an audience. Every eye is on him, and he looks at each person in turn, willing them to hear Apollo in his quiet voice. Willing them to join in their cause.

There's a scuffle somewhere in the back of the crowd. Combeferre sees Bahorel dart towards it out of the corner of his eye. The silence shifts to quiet murmurs, but Combeferre keeps speaking, holding them fast.

"Combeferre!" Jehan's voice rings out across the crowd. He's struggling with a pair of plainclothes policemen, their badges now flashing on their chests. "Look out!"

There's a ripple in the audience, a physical wave and a vocal one, as men advance through the crowd, up toward Combeferre on the steps of the building. Their guns are pointed up, at Combeferre. But some-- some are pointed out, at the crowd.

( _"The mutant snake has two heads. Cut off one, and the second rises. Cut off both--"_ )

A shape clad in red (Red-- that's Enjolras' colour) sprints up the steps, dodging under arms and out of grips. His body is rippling with colour, but his blue eyes are bright against the shades shifting in his skin. It's the first anyone has seen of Grantaire in over a month. He stands in front of Combeferre, a shield. The guns are pointing at him. The men are still advancing.

When Grantaire throws out his arms as wide as they can go, Combeferre expects twelve pillars of Greco-Roman gods to rise up and protect them. Instead, the colours spread out in front of Grantaire, growing brighter and brighter as they shift and swirl. Instead, there is only one: Apollo--Enjolras--huge and towering and blazing.

From only a few feet away, Combeferre can see words wrapping themselves around Grantaire's neck, around his torso where the paint has shredded his shirt into nothing. The Enjolras-Apollo grows, in size and brightness; it reaches out golden arms and plucks the guns from the militiamen and officers. It pushes them down, back, but never harms the innocent citizens in the mass of people.

"We will not go away," The huge burning vision of Enjolras thunders. Grantaire's body is shaking in front of Combeferre; the tears streaking down his face are black. "We will fight until we are accepted. There will be no Mutant Registration Act."

The crowd roars in triumph. Mutants-- registered and unregistered alike-- unleash their powers and push back against the policemen hurrying towards them from all sides. There's no match against the mob. The revolution-- the one Enjolras had been trying for-- has begun. Combeferre is watching the crowd, and nearly misses the way Grantaire's shoulders shiver. The Apollo-Enjolras turns away from the chaos and shrinks, still shining, until he is the size Enjolras, the _real_ Enjolras, had been. It stands in front of Grantaire with a sad smile. A shiver wracks the dark-haired man's body, and he grunts in pain. Ink is leaking from his nose, a purplish black.

Grantaire grins, but it's weak and shaky. "I said it wasn't my fight," he whispers. _Vive le diversite_ stains itself into the concrete steps where they stand. "I never said you couldn't use me for it."

The Apollo-Enjolras nods solemnly, but says nothing. Grantaire shudders and curls in on himself with a groan. Words scribble themselves across his skin, bind his body like ropes, and don't change. Enjolras disappears as Grantaire utters a wordless cry and collapses to his knees, keeling over sideways on the stair. Ink spreads out beneath him like blood.

The crowd doesn't notice his fall, doesn't see his stillness or the ink-blood running down the steps to pool at their feet. They don't see the tiny smile on his face, or the devoted, defiant words tattooed forever across his skin. But they take up the cry when someone starts it, screaming it into the sky that's shining with sunlight.

( _"I am one of them!"_ )


End file.
